The peepul lies flat on the ground, felled by a summer storm. Boy is sitting on its trunk again, waiting, when he sees a boy across the road, stepping in and out of the shadows of the leafy eucalyptus trees. Boy thinks of cream poured into a mug of coffee, disappearing, then rising again to the surface. He licks his lips, craving something sweet, and whistles. The boy, startled, looks up first, as if to spot the bird that’s the source of the sound. So, Boy whistles again. This time, the boy looks in his direction. Boy beckons him over. The boy runs across the road. Without breaking his stride, he leaps, pivots with a hand planted on the trunk, and lands next to Boy. Their shoulders touch, their heads are nearly level.
“What’s your name?” Boy asks. “Haven’t seen you before.”
“Madhu,” the boy replies. He tells Boy that he lived in Garhwal until the Ganga flooded his town and took his parents and Samosa the Dog. He sounds as if he’s reporting a loss endured by someone else; emotion doesn’t alter his voice or turn his eyes liquid.
Boy says, trying to mimic Madhu’s cool tone, “Both our parents are like this...